


The Protégé

by Esteliel



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Blow Jobs, First Meetings, Hand Jobs, M/M, Power Imbalance, Sugar Daddy Chabouillet, office politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-10
Updated: 2016-06-10
Packaged: 2018-07-14 07:42:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7160480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chabouillet had long held to the belief that one could train a mutt just as well as a hound of the finest lineage. If the instinct was true, all that was needed was the firm hand of the master.</p>
<p>His eyes lingered on the straight back, the severe face, the neatly tied hair, the polished brass buttons gleaming on the cheap wool.</p>
<p>There was a hound just waiting for the hand of an appreciative master if he had ever seen one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Protégé

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jehane18](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jehane18/gifts).



Chabouillet had been crossing the halls of the Prefecture with long strides, boots echoing on the marble floor, when the rather unusual sight of a man in his thirties, long hair severely tied back in an old-fashioned queue, interrupted his line of thoughts, which so far had been preoccupied with the task of getting the latest Prefect to sign off on Chabouillet's list of expenses.

Of course, there was never a quiet minute to be had in these halls. The sight of messengers and adjutants was common enough that one more man should have disturbed him no more than the sight of yet another porcelain vase or a bouquet of lilacs in the entrance hall.

And yet. There was something about the man that had arrested him immediately.

It was not that he was comely, for he was not. His face was severe. Framed by impressive whiskers, the stranger's face consisted of thin lips and expressionless eyes shadowed by bushy eyebrows.

But the man's posture was excellent. He stood at attention, hat beneath his arm, waiting for God knows what, for there was no one else in sight.

He could have been one of the statues in the Tuileries.

Chabouillet slowed his walk, keeping his eyes on the man for as long as possible. He still could not quite say what had caught his interest so, but despite the severeness of his features and the cheapness of his coat, the man did not move an inch as he waited, all attentive patience.

Like a hound, Chabouillet decided as he was finally forced to turn a corner to follow another corridor.

Like a well-bred, well-taught hound meant for the hunt, devotedly waiting for his master's command. It was an appealing vision.

“Forgive me, monsieur, I—” Baptiste gasped, red-faced and panting as he finally caught up with him, notes slipping from the stash beneath his arms.

“For God's sake, man!” Chabouillet ground his teeth as he watched the secretary flush further and bend to retrieve the letters he had dropped. “If we are missing any documents for this talk, I will have your hide.”

As easy as that, the stranger was forgotten. After all, what was one more servant of the state when hundreds crossed the doors of the Prefecture every day? More important matters were on Chabouillet's mind, and he might not even have remembered that short encounter later on, if the next day, the man had not stood in the same spot.

Once more Chabouillet allowed his eyes to linger as he walked past. He stood exactly as he remembered: long, dark hair neatly tied back, the face framed by formidable whiskers, his boots polished, but shabby, the coat of cheap wool expertly mended in various places. And still the man stood at attention, waiting with no outward sign of impatience. Indeed, his posture was so staggeringly unchanged that for one confused moment Chabouillet had the mad idea that the man might have stood in place, unmoving, patiently obedient to some invisible order, all through the night.

The thought was foolish. Chabouillet allowed himself a small smile as he walked past the office where the man held his vigil. Of course he had not spent the night in the Prefecture. Furthermore, the office in front of which he was so admirably waiting was the office of Commissaire Mauriac, to whom many hopeful for a post with the police came calling. That was no surprise then.

What was a surprise was that the man was yet again waiting with no outward sign of impatience or annoyance on the third day.

This time, Chabouillet slowed his steps, taking his time as he studied the man. The stranger had done what he could, that much was obvious. And yet, his neat appearance could not hide the fact that he had to make do with very little.

Not a well-bred hound then, Chabouillet thought, his lips lifting in silent amusement. And yet, was it not true that what was important for the hunt was instinct, not bloodline? Chabouillet had long held to the belief that one could train a mutt just as well as a hound of the finest lineage. If the instinct was true, all that was needed was the firm hand of the master.

His eyes lingered on the straight back, the severe face, the neatly tied hair, the polished brass buttons gleaming on the cheap wool.

There was a hound just waiting for the hand of an appreciative master if he had ever seen one.

Abruptly, he changed direction, causing Baptiste to swerve and scatter more of his precariously balanced pile of notes.

“Monsieur!” Baptiste gasped in consternation. Chabouillet ignored him.

“You. What is your name?” he demanded imperiously, staring into that face he had observed for the past few days. Now it had turned towards him, eyes widening a little in surprise, although there was no other visible sign of the man's reaction.

The man's eyes skimmed over him. Less than a heart-beat, and then the man inclined his head, his voice firm but respectful as he had apparently come to a conclusion as to what Chabouillet's status in this maze of marble hallways and ante-rooms might be.

“Javert, monsieur,” he said, his voice pleasantly deep. “Here to see Commissaire Mauriac.”

Chabouillet gave him a thoughtful look. “A busy man, M. Mauriac.”

Javert inclined his head again. “As one might expect,” he said gravely.

Chabouillet made a non-committal sound. Baptiste was sweating as he held on to the stash of papers, seething silently.

“See me in my office,” Chabouillet said at last and produced a card from the depths of his pockets.

He handed it to Javert, who looked at it. His eyes widened a little as he read Chabouillet's name and position, but he showed no otherwise reaction and remained standing at attention, determination in his eyes.

“I am at M. Mauriac's leisure,” Javert said.

“Afterwards then.” Chabouillet was impressed despite himself that this mutt standing in the marble halls of the prefecture in his ragtag coat showed such devotion.

Loyalty. Loyalty, instinct, obedience. Traits to be molded by the right hand.

And that hand was certainly not Mauriac's, he thought with an inward grimace of disgust, who would make this man wait outside his office for days. Of course, the man's get-up was disagreeable, and certainly not suitable to the position to which Javert was aspiring, but a better man–a man like Chabouillet himself—would see that the fault was not with Javert. All it would take was the touch of an educated hand, the hand of a connoisseur, to chip away that layer of disreputability that clung to Javert, and reveal the sleek fur of the devoted hound beneath.

Javert had patience, and Chabouillet was impressed by it. But no one was more patient than Chabouillet himself, who had served in his position since 1810 and survived—and in one case even indirectly helped cause—the resignation of three Prefects of Police.

Thus, Chabouillet was not surprised when late that evening, two hours past when most of the men inside the Prefecture had retired to their homes, he heard a knock on his door.

There was no timidity in it despite the lateness of the hour, and when he bade his visitor to enter, he felt no surprise when the by now familiar figure of Javert appeared.

In fact, Chabouillet had used the afternoon to inform himself about this determined man who now stood attentively in his office. Even as Javert waited outside the door of Mauriac for hours, Chabouillet had sent one of his secretaries to enter and retrieve Javert's papers from Mauriac's pile of letters from hopeful men hoping to enter the ranks of the police of Paris.

A police spy from the provinces, a former convict-guard from Toulon. Chabouillet pursed his lips as he looked Javert up and down. Yes; indeed it showed in the man's get-up. It was no surprise that Mauriac had made him wait. It was all too apparent that Mauriac hoped Javert would leave and spare him the bother of an interview when Mauriac had no shortage of men wishing to enter his service.

“I am glad you followed my invitation,” Chabouillet said. “I will be frank; I know why you are here, and though your patience is commendable, it might not help your request much.”

“And yet I will keep waiting until the Commissaire has time to see me, monsieur,” Javert replied calmly.

“Oh, you misunderstand me.” Chabouillet said, a trace of humor in his voice. “I do not wish to dissuade you from following this path. No. You interest me, Javert. In fact, I find that I have become rather approving of the idea of you entering the service.”

Now, for the first time, Javert seemed taken aback. For a moment, he remained silent, then he locked his lips. “Monsieur?” he ventured slowly.

Chabouillet steepled his fingers. “Let us speak frankly. You know as well as I that a man of your birth has little prospects. And yet, all that I have read of you speaks of your obedience, your loyalty, your devotion to your duty.” He spread out Javert's file in front of him, watching Javert flush a little as he realized that Chabouillet had acquired his papers.

“I have taken an interest in you. These qualities are all qualities I cherish, and frankly, Mauriac is an idiot who spends half his day asleep in his chair and the other half drunk. He'll take one look at that frayed coat of yours and send you away. So. That is where you stand.”

Javert's jaw tightened. Chabouillet watched as he visibly resisted the urge to hide his right arm behind his back, where the hem of his coat had been obviously mended.

Chabouillet would not be surprised to hear that the man had done it himself.

“Here is my offer then. I will get you a position. Something appropriate to your talents and prior post. In time, a man with your virtues might make it far.”

Javert frowned. “I do not understand, monsieur...”

“Do you know how many years I have held this position?” Chabouillet allowed himself a small smile. “No, you need not answer, it does not matter. But I have served longer than every Prefect. And do you know why that is? Because I see potential, and I use it. I do not want to see yours wasted.”

Chabouillet held up a hand when Javert started to speak. “No, don't doubt that I am entirely self-serving in this. It pleases me that my patronage has yielded many bright men, risen through the ranks to important positions. That is how this Prefecture keeps running, Javert. Never doubt that. And so, is that a duty that would please you? To serve the law? To serve the Prefecture?”

“To serve you, monsieur?” Javert asked after a moment.

Amused, Chabouillet tilted his head. “Only insofar as it benefits the Prefecture. I think in the years to come you will find that Mauriac will go, that Prefect d'André will go, but that you and I, we will both remain at our post. And having a dutiful protégé benefits me as much as a supportive patron might benefit you.”

Still Javert hesitated. Chabouillet watched, partly amused, but partly also pleased by the way his newest hound's instincts were warring right there on that face which seemed so unused to the expression of emotion.

At last Javert nodded stiffly. “If serving you in turn serves the Prefecture, monsieur... Then I would indeed be honored by your regard in this matter.”

“Very well!” Chabouillet stood, pleased by the answer. He fished another card out of his pocket. “You will meet me here tomorrow at noon. I look forward to how you will surely do me proud.”

He watched as Javert read the name on the card and the pocketed it with a deep frown. Still he did not speak, even though the address on the card was that of a tailor.

Chabouillet's tailor, in fact, and Chabouillet regarded the tall, straight form of the man in front of him once more with pleasure.

“Monsieur.” Javert inclined his head, and then he left.

Chabouillet felt that smile still pulling at his lips as he silently began mulling over cravats of red silk. He had a feeling Javert would prefer something more austere, and yet – it would be a striking contrast to his severe features.

***

Javert had been punctual for their appointment. Of course, Chabouillet had expected nothing else—still, he could not help but feel pleasure rise up within him at the sight of this earnest man, straight-backed and unsmiling, attentively awaiting his command.

They had taken a carriage into the narrow street where Chabouillet's tailor had his rooms. Chabouillet had not deemed it necessary to inform Javert of his plans, and Javert in turn had not inquired what the Secretary to the Prefect might want of him. Chabouillet ordered, Javert followed; it was all very natural, and already Chabouillet felt a certain possessive satisfaction at having freed this promising man from the clutches of Mauriac who would have squandered his talents, if he would not have denied him a post at first glance.

But no more danger of that. Still wary but instinctively leaning towards the hand that wielded authority, Javert might yet find a promising career. The man needed improvement, that much was obvious—his clothes as well as his mind, of course. A few years in a quiet departement, perhaps. If Javert found a way to distinguish himself, Chabouillet had ways to have him recalled to Paris. And then—then there would be one more man loyal to him walking the corridors of the Prefecture and the streets of Paris. Chabouillet had long prided himself on his eye for such opportunities.

When they entered the shop, Javert tensed but remained respectfully silent as the tailor addressed Chabouillet. For a moment, they exchanged pleasantries, and Chabouillet ordered another set of shirts for himself.

But then it was time to come to the crux of the matter.

“My protégé here,” he said, gesturing towards Javert, “will require a set of clothes. You will see to it. Three shirts, trousers, waistcoat, coat, and cravats to go with it. Of the sort befitting a man about to start his first post at the Prefecture; I am certain you know what I have in mind. A simple cut, if you please, but your good wool.”

“Of course, monsieur,” the tailor said, already gesturing to his apprentices as he bowed.

“And,” Chabouillet added after a moment, allowing himself the pleasure of studying Javert's tall, straight form, “perhaps another set of shirt, waistcoat and cravat to please me. Silk brocade. Something tasteful and subdued—perhaps russet?”

Now Javert looked distinctly uncomfortable, although he still did not speak, which Chabouillet noted with approval. Javert's shoulders had tensed, but when the two apprentices came forward to divest him of his coat, he did not protest. He allowed himself to be turned; a hint of color had appeared on his cheeks, and he did not meet Chabouillet's eyes. Now that he stood before him in his shirtsleeves, Chabouillet could see that the worn linen of his shirt had indeed been mended in several places.

Next, Javert's trousers were removed. Flushed and tense, Javert complied even with this, and Chabouillet was too amused to spare Javert his scrutiny. Certainly it was not too much to ask in exchange for his patronage—and even clad in nothing but his shirt, the form of Javert was pleasing to him. The man was lean—but it was the leanness of the wolf in winter. There was strength in his limbs, and hunger. It was a pleasing combination to Chabouillet. When Javert finally raised his head, he gave him an approving nod.

The apprentices were deftly winding and unwinding the measuring tape around Javert's limbs. Javert bore it all without protest, even when the apprentices measured the circumference of his thighs and for a moment, his shirt, which was slightly too short, shifted in the process. Chabouillet was treated to the barest glimpse of the shaft that hung between Javert's legs, the hair on his thighs the same russet as that on his head.

Chabouillet openly allowed his eyes to linger. Still flushed, Javert swallowed. After a moment he lowered his eyes again, but Chabouillet's admiring gaze could now make out the shape of his stirring cock. It was a pleasing sight, and as the apprentices withdrew with their notes and pins and measuring tapes, Chabouillet gave Javert a thoughtful look.

“We will collect the clothes tomorrow,” Chabouillet said at last.

His tailor accepted these news without complaint. From experience, he knew that Chabouillet, who did not care whether the man worked his apprentices all through the night, was good to pay for the speed with which he could deliver.

“As you say, Monsieur,” the tailor said. With another deliberately blank look, he withdrew, ostensibly to set about preparing the patterns with his apprentices.

Chabouillet's smile widened a little. As soon as the door closed, he took a step towards Javert, who swallowed thickly but otherwise did not move.

“Very good,” Chabouillet murmured, his hand coming to rest on Javert's shoulder.

The linen was thin and soft beneath his grip, worn and washed and mended a thousand times. He stroked his thumb along the revealed skin of Javert's throat. Despite his outward calm, Javert's pulse was throbbing rapidly.

“You will not think this bribery, I am certain,” Chabouillet said, close enough that he could see the shifting emotions on Javert's face. “For I have no need for bribery, surely you know that.”

“It is as you say, monsieur,” Javert acknowledged, his voice hoarse. “You are Secretary to the Prefect; I am a police spy from the provinces. For you to take an interest in my post is...”

Javert spread his hands somewhat helplessly. “Already too much honor,” he finally continued.

“But I have taken an interest,” Chabouillet said serenely. “And since that is the case, I need you suitably attired. You understand how it is. Mauriac is a scoundrel and spends half his days asleep in his office, and the other half drunk. And yet.”

He eyed Javert again, who stood before him in his mended shirt, which was a little too short and not as white as Chabouillet's own expertly bleached linen.

“No,” Chabouillet said. “I say this not to shame you, but because it is the truth.”

Javert nodded his assent, even though his cheeks were still flushed. “You need not mince your words with me, monsieur. I am well aware of what you speak. I would not have disgraced the halls of the Prefecture in this outfit, but it is the only I own, and I spent what I had saved on the journey here, and a month's rent of a small room.”

Chabouillet's lips twitched into a smile. “That was brave of you then. Determined, in any case. And such determination to serve the Prefecture should not go unrewarded.”

“Monsieur?” Javert inquired, nostrils widening a little, a hound scenting to anticipate its master's wishes, or so Chabouillet liked to imagine.

They were close; now Chabouillet moved impossibly closer. Javert drew in a shuddering breath, but he held his place, even as Chabouillet rested his hand familiarly on his thigh to stroke the lean muscle with quiet approval.

“Tomorrow at noon. Meet me in my office once more.” Reluctantly, Chabouillet stepped back.

Javert's face was still flushed, his eyes wide and dark—shock, perhaps, or some other emotion more pleasing to Chabouillet.

No, definitely the latter, for Chabouillet now saw that Javert's member was still half stiff, pressing against the old shirt.

“Tomorrow,” Chabouillet said again, and then went to find the tailor.

***

The next day, Javert was punctual; Chabouillet had expected nothing else.

His tailor had not disappointed either. It was well worth the exorbitant sum Chabouillet was prepared to pay to have his orders followed to the last detail.

No, more than worth it, Chabouillet thought as he watched Javert divest himself of his clothes. The tailor and his apprentices had given them the privacy of the changing room. This, too, was a privilege Chabouillet was well prepared to pay for. And it was worth every single coin he had spent on this business over the years, for now that they were alone, he watched Javert take a deep breath and then grasp the hem of his shirt to pull it off, revealing his rawboned body to Chabouillet's attentive gaze.

Chabouillet did not bother to hide his interest. And why should he. Javert was pleasing to look at: the leanness of the starved wolf paired with the gratifying strength of muscle and sinew. A few years holding a position that would allow him to eat and dress better than he had during the past years, and Chabouillet did not doubt that this latest protégé would become the most formidable of all.

Javert was hairier than many of Chabouillet's protégés. Black hair grew in abundance between his legs, a fine fur that covered his thighs as well. A trail of it grew upwards, towards his chest, which was covered more sparsely than Chabouillet had expected of a man who boasted of such impressive whiskers.

And of course, nestled between his thighs, there lay the organ he had been curious about. It was pleasingly large, and the sac behind it heavy. The rosiness of Javert's shaft seemed almost startling on a man who otherwise bore no trace of softness. But as Chabouillet watched, that shaft began to stir and grow firm for him, showing off its size even as it flushed red with blood.

“Very nice,” Chabouillet said while more blood rushed to Javert's cheeks. “Try on those clothes, see if they fit.”

They fit well; of course they did. Chabouillet was not in the habit of employing men who did not know their craft. But even so, he could not quite suppress a sound of admiration once Javert was fully fitted in his new garb.

The trousers were tight and showed off his long legs so that he seemed even taller. They stretched across the hard muscles of his thighs. Although the cut was simple, as Chabouillet had requested—no different from what any aspiring man might wear to an interview with Mauriac—the wool was fine indeed, shining with a subtle luster and clinging to Javert's form in a most flattering way.

The shirt Javert now wore was white: a true white, linen bleached expertly, unlike the cheap, yellowed shirt he had worn before. Over the shirt, he wore a waistcoat of black with a simple silver jacquard pattern embroidered. Chabouillet reached out to smooth it with his hand; this, too, was of fine quality despite its deceptive simplicity.

A white cravat of cotton covered Javert's throat. Chabouillet nodded his approval of the outfit; it would do well, and already he could see that his own instincts had proven true.

Javert was formidable. With his coat of elegant, black wool over the ensemble, he cut a stunning figure, impressively tall and the severity of his features set off by the simpleness of the outfit. A few years of experience and good food would certainly turn him into a broad-shouldered avenging angel, bearing down on criminals in all his terrifying glory.

A fierce wolf hound to have at his beck and call. Yes, Chabouillet had chosen well.

"Much better," Chabouillet said. "Yes... I'm quite satisfied."

With one hand on Javert's arm, he lightly nudged him towards the large mirror, appreciative once more of Javert's immediate and total obedience, like a hound well-trained to its master's body language, or a stallion trained to respond to the slightest signal.

"What do you think?" he asked, staring at Javert in the mirror as he possessively ran his hands down his shoulders.

The coat fit very well indeed, accentuating the broad neck and strong shoulders and the fashionably slim waist. The waistcoat did not distract from the impressive picture in the slightest; the silver jacquard was a tasteful embellishment, but so subdued that it only became visible when a ray of sunlight caught on the silver pattern by chance. With Chabouillet situated behind and to the side of Javert, both hands on his shoulders, he did indeed look the part Chabouillet desired to prepare him for: the young protégé who would one day become a dependable, formidable creature at Chabouillet's beck and call.

Such dependable loyalty was in truth the highest currency in the halls of the Prefecture, where many Prefects had come and gone while Chabouillet had quietly attended to his own business, keeping out of sight in the shadow of whoever was currently in power, and weaving ever more connections to ensure that it would stay that way, no matter whose shadow he used as his cover.

"I am in no position to judge these things," Javert said truthfully, "but it appears to me outstanding workmanship. It fits very well, monsieur. Better than anything I have ever owned," he added.

Chabouillet allowed himself another smile. "I am certain the uniform will fit you just as well. But for now..."

He reached out and took hold of the cravat, slowly pulling it open, watching as the knot unraveled and bared the vulnerable skin of Javert's throat. He put the cravat down, and instead took up another length of fabric the tailor had left him.

It was another cravat—but this was silk. A deep russet, and as he wrapped it around Javert's throat, he found himself nodding again. Yes; his tailor had found the perfect shade. The color was subdued enough that it did not look ridiculous on Javert; instead, the spot of dark red at his throat added to his severity and brought out the reflexes in Javert's auburn hair.

Chabouillet could feel Javert swallow as he tied his cravat, watching his hands work in the mirror. He took his time, enjoying the sensation of the cool, sleek fabric and the way Javert's pulse throbbed at his throat, speeding up despite the fact that Javert's expression remained unmoved.

"Very good," Chabouillet murmured when he was done. "Yes, indeed—I had the right eye. The color suits you."

In the mirror, Javert's eyes met his. There was the hint of a flush on Javert's cheeks, and when Chabouillet allowed his gaze to drop lower, he could see the tell-tale bulge in the trousers that spoke of Javert's approval.

Chabouillet smiled. Still holding Javert's gaze, he reached out for his hair. With a tug, the ribbon that held the old-fashioned queue tied back was tugged free; unbound, the long hair settled around Javert's face, brushing his shoulders. It softened his face; instead of the severe, single-minded man who had aroused Chabouillet's interest, he seemed younger all of a sudden, softer. Malleable.

Chabouillet ran his fingers through russet tresses, then gathered it back once more. From his pocket, he drew a ribbon of silk—the same russet as the cravat. He wound it around Javert's hair and then tied it neatly, the queue in place once more, Javert as orderly as when he had first seen him.

"Good," Chabouillet repeated. He slid his hands down Javert's sides, rested them on the narrow hips. Suddenly bold, Javert turned, and Chabouillet smiled when he found his arousal still stretching the wool of his trousers.

"There's one last thing I'd like to know," he mused even as he opened Javert's trousers and deftly slid a hand inside, pressing the heel of his palm against the hard shaft awaiting him within. "Has anyone ever done this to you?"

With a groan, Javert bucked against him, mouth slack and eyes half closed, all that formidable control that had attracted Chabouillet melting away at a single touch.

Chabouillet laughed a little and closed his fingers around Javert's prick. "I take it that is a no."

"No, monsieur," Javert agreed, sounding dazed. One of his hands came up to clutch at Chabouillet's arm as though he was no longer able to stand on his own.

Chabouillet squeezed gently, then stroked him once from root to the swollen crown, forcing another overwhelmed sound of pleasure from Javert.

“Monsieur, the trousers” Javert gasped, and, chuckling, Chabouillet released him.

Stamina was something that could be worked on in time, he thought as he looked at Javert's flushed cheeks and parted lips. The man was still gasping for breath, looking overwhelmed. Amusement filled Chabouillet at how easy it had been to break through Javert's defenses. As formidable as he looked, in the right hands, he would prove a tool both useful and entertaining.

And Chabouillet had never seen a man so intent on proving himself as a tool for his superiors to use.

“I take it you've let no one fuck your arse either,” he said, deliberately crude, and just as anticipated his words were rewarded by widening eyes and a deepening flush.

It took several seconds for Javert to gather himself enough to answer; Chabouillet, too amused to forego this little cruelty, did not release his eyes as he waited.

Javert swallowed thickly. “No, monsieur,” he said with some difficulty.

Chabouillet allowed his eyes to trail downwards again. Javert's prick peeked out of the open trouser flap, swollen a blatant red. Well. That was an encouraging result for his crudeness.

Javert remained silent for a long moment. At last, still breathing heavily, he licked his lips. “Would it please you if I touched yours?” he asked, voice rough.

Still amused, Chabouillet considered for a moment. He was half of a mind to demand Javert suck him, just to see those eyes widen in shock once more, before this lovely new hound would without a doubt willingly obey his command. But then, that was a thing he wanted to savor. It had been a while since he had last trained a protégé to his hand, and never one so skittish and willing at once.

“It would please me,” he said at last.

Javert's boldness took him by surprise, for not only did one large hand slide into his trousers, but Javert also stepped closer until they were chest to chest once more.

Javert's hand was warm and rough, but the pleasing firmness of his grip made up for his obvious inexperience. Javert was so close that he could see the hint of apprehension in his eyes. It made the slow exploration of Javert's fingers all the more rewarding. Javert's palm was large; Chabouillet was not small, and yet Javert's massive hand wrapped easily around his engorged prick so that Chabouillet sighed with contentment.

“Stroke me,” he said. “Surely you have touched yourself?”

Again a shiver of apprehension ran through Javert, but he nodded eagerly enough, fingers massaging up and down Chabouillet's length.

“Yes, monsieur,” he admitted.

For a moment Chabouillet wondered what a man such as Javert had thought about while he pleasured himself. What had been his first fantasies? What his latest?

Perhaps the thing that most endeared Javert to him was that Chabouillet knew that he would receive an honest answer as soon as he asked, for the man seemed intent on offering himself up completely.

No; those were secrets to be savored some other time. Perhaps, after he had secured Javert his post, he would make Javert come into his office in his uniform and stand at attention before him as Chabouillet questioned him intimately.

He rather thought that Javert would find such a situation very agreeable.

“Then stroke me the way you like to touch yourself at night,” he said, and Javert took a deep breath.

His grip tight, he stroked slowly, carefully measured movements, until Chabouillet had swollen to his full size. Then Javert began to use his thumb to tease at the head, carefully smearing the fluid that kept escaping around the sensitive head.

When Chabouillet groaned in approval, Javert licked his lips.

“Monsieur, your trousers...” he offered, and then, bold once more, before Chabouillet had even thought to demand such a thing, Javert had dropped to his knees and carefully wrapped his lips around the crown of his prick.

Javert's mouth was hot, his tongue soft as velvet as it rasped tentatively against him. Chabouillet could feel the shudder that ran through Javert at the first taste—was it revulsion? Had Javert believed that he deserved to be used in such a way?

And then Javert sucked at him, clumsily and obviously inexperienced, but the sight of that mouth spread wide around him, eyes gazing up at him dark with something that might be shame and revulsion or hunger or maybe all those things at once. But above all, it was determination, and Chabouillet groaned and reached down to grab Javert's hair, burying his hand in it harshly to hold Javert in place. Merciless at last, he spent himself in thick ribbons on Javert's tongue who made a sputtering sound, but then forced himself to remain in place, his shoulder tense under Chabouillet's other hand as he swallowed with difficulty.

“If you kneel,” Chabouillet forced out, voice rough and hungry, “you take what I give you, is that understood?”

Javert could not speak, but he nodded his assent as well as he could, eyes dark and wide with an emotion that might be shock now. Yet even so, he kept swallowing dutifully. When Chabouillet at last pulled out, softening, he licked the smears of spend from his lips, and then bent forward to lick Chabouillet clean, without the need for another command.

His new hound did indeed react well to a firm hand. It was just as he had thought.

Chabouillet reached down. He pressed his thumb lightly against Javert's swollen lips, stroking along them. Javert remained on his knees, breathless as he looked up at him. Between Javert's legs, Chabouillet could see the evidence of his enjoyment of the rough treatment. Javert was still hard, tenting his trousers. A shiver of desire ran through Chabouillet as he wondered what it would take to drive that away.

Or perhaps it was true. Perhaps Javert, who had come to the Prefecture with the sole wish of serving, wagering his pitiful savings on that one chance, would be grateful for any chance to serve, no matter what was asked of him.

But then, it did not do to punish a hound overly much. A cruel master led to a cowardly hound. A strict hand Javert would have, but no more than that.

Not unless he asked for more, Chabouillet thought as he looked at those swollen lips and disheveled hair, reaching out at last to rest a pleased hand on Javert's head.

Somehow, he rather thought Javert would...


End file.
